Echoes of the Past
by arduna
Summary: "... As he puts a hand on the knob he feels a weird sensation, like a tingling. It's almost painful and he snatches his hand away automatically. He touches it again more cautiously but feels nothing, so he turns the knob, shaking his head. The silence of the house must be getting to him." An entry for the October Fete des Mousquetaires challenge.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi everyone! I noticed there are a lot of Aramis stories around at the moment, and great as they are, I am missing d'Artagnan. So I had to write my own entry for October's Haunted House Fête des Mousquetaires challenge (go to the Forum to read and vote on the other entries which are excellent, even without d'Artagnan!) And look, I came in a whole 2000 words under the limit this time... It's in two parts, second one up tomorrow. Hope you enjoy it._

* * *

 **Echoes of the past**

Spring is in the air today; it's in the warmth of the early sun through his window, the sparkle of the Seine in the distance, the mellifluous surge of birdsong as he washes and dresses quietly so as not to cause trouble for Constance by waking her husband too early. It's in the gentle humming he hears from the parlour as he tiptoes down the dark stairs, hand on his sword to stop it clanking. It's in the spring of her curls as she turns to greet him, breakfast platter ready in her hand. It's in the surge he feels in his belly as he thanks her, their fingers grazing as he takes the plate, suddenly losing his appetite.

He quashes his youthful response immediately with practised skill. He is used, now, to feeling this way around her and, much as Porthos teases him about being an ignorant Gascon, he refuses to countenance impropriety around her. She is too special for that. He has contented himself with becoming a friend, which he can see she sorely needs, and spends every spare moment thinking up ways to make her laugh. He's learned to push thoughts of her far from his mind as soon as he leaves the house every morning, finding he needs all his concentration and energy to keep up with the training regime Athos, Porthos and Aramis are putting him through.

Today though, as he walks the yawning streets of Paris on his way to the Garrison, the smell of spring tugs at his mind and instead of looking forward to finding out what training or mission is lined up for him today at the garrison, he finds himself yearning for the farm where he grew up. He longs to hear the sound of his mother singing as she made the morning bread, and his father stamping the dew from his boots as he came in from feeding the stock.

He'd been eight, the last time he heard his mother sing, before the illness struck her down and sucked the moisture from her skin and the warm glow from her eyes. Remembering that time, he has to stop suddenly, putting a hand to a wall still cool from the night's shadows, to catch his breath before squaring his shoulders and heading towards the market with a resolute lift of his chin.

And spring weaves its magic again as he threads his way through, luring him in with the bright colours of the fabrics being draped over stalls, the burst of laughter as a toothless onion-purveyor flirted shamelessly with the seamstress next to his pitch, the sweet smell of the Seville oranges brought up from southern fields, and the waft of warm herby bread rolls which make him feel hungry again.

By the time he reaches the garrison his natural optimism has overcome the pang of loss he'd felt at the thought of his first spring far from home, and he's whistling at the prospect of the day ahead.

He's just in time for muster and slips easily through the ranks to join his friends. He dares to think of them this way now; they've already shared so much, even though he's only known them a few months. He knows that some of the other musketeers muttered, to begin with, at his temerity in taking a place next to the great _Inséparables_ , but he's stopped worrying about it, secure in his welcome.

Today there is no time for sparring and he feels a pang of disappointment as Tréville gives out the orders for the day. He is to help clear the house of an old noble family whose last remaining occupant has just died, leaving no heirs. The contents will be claimed by the Crown, and he understands that it is an honour to be entrusted with the task of cataloguing the valuables and keeping them safe from looters. He is aware of a sense of disappointment though, at the prospect of spending this glorious day inside an abandoned house, and he finds solace only in the thought that he will not be alone in this task.

It becomes quickly apparent that whatever distaste he feels for this assignment is nothing compared to the revulsion displayed by the other _Inséparables_. As soon as they are dismissed, before he can even turn to greet them, all three shoot off after Tréville and as they catch him at the top of the stairs he hears a low-voiced argument begin. At first he waits, but when they disappear into Tréville's office he feels self-conscious standing on his own in the courtyard, so he shrugs and heads for the stables to ready their horses. The argument is taking long enough that he suspects Tréville will not be swayed by whatever objections they are raising about this task.

He is right. When they join him five minutes later Aramis looks cross, Porthos sheepish and Athos... Athos looks bleak. d'Artagnan pauses in the act of cinching up Nuit's girth, and looks from one to the other, but without speaking or catching his eye they each collect their saddles and tack up their own mounts. None of them comment on the fact that he has groomed and bridled their mounts and brought them out to be ready for the trio, and he feels a flare of irritation at the way they sometimes take him for granted.

As they head out d'Artagnan notices a couple of odd looks from other musketeers in the courtyard, and he swears he sees Jean-Louis make the sign of the cross, but then Betrand nudges him and there's a burst of laughter, and he thinks he must have imagined it.

They wind their way through the narrow streets and courtyards and make their way across the Pont-Neuf. d'Artagnan hasn't yet tired of gawping at the mascarons, the stone masks depicting the heads of the ancient gods of forest and field, which decorate the bridge. They make him shiver with their blank eyes and fierce mouths, but he quite enjoys this reminder of ancient folklore. He doesn't know the left bank area well and he cranes his neck constantly as they head towards the Benedictine Abbey which stands outside the east gate, but to his disappointment – he'd been looking forward to spending some time breathing fresh country air, today – they turn north before the gate, heading back towards the Seine. At one point Athos peels off and disappears up a side-street but the others ride on without comment and after a moment's hesitation d'Artagnan nudges Nuit to catch them up. "Where's he going?" he asks, reasonably.

"Hire a cart for the furniture," Porthos grunts without looking at him.

d'Artagnan feels unsettled. Has he done something wrong? He thinks back but can't think of any unspoken musketeer law he might have broken. He holds his tongue for at least another two minutes before blurting out: "What's wrong? Have I upset you?"

Fidget tosses her head as Aramis reins her in abruptly. "No, lad. No... We just had a different idea about how to spend such a glorious day." He winks at d'Artagnan who relaxes and grins back, enjoying the moment of shared regret; content that, whatever is going on, it is not his fault.

Athos catches them up as they come to a halt opposite an imposing two-storied house on the corner of the Rue de la Coulombe. The windows are tall and crowned with elaborate carved stone pediments, but the stonework is crumbling and a couple of the glass panes upstairs are missing. The courtyard in front of the house has grass growing around the flagstones and the house looks as if it was abandoned years ago. He turns questioning eyes on Athos, but the others are already dismounting so he quickly follows suit, moving to take Athos' reins as the lieutenant produces a key from his pocket and mounts the steps to the front door.

It takes Athos several goes to turn the key, and Porthos has to help shoulder the door open. Aramis nudges d'Artagnan, hands him a couple of coins and points to an inn across the road with stables to the side. Obediently he trudges over, leading four horses, and secures them stable-space for the morning.

The others are still in the hallway when he rejoins them. He can't help but exclaim as he enters the dim interior, for the entrance hall is high-ceilinged and imposing, with a marble fireplace flanked by a twin set of split staircase sweeping to an upper balcony leading to the bedrooms. To one side double doors lead into a reception room which boosts an enormous fireplace, tall enough for him to stand in without stooping, and three floor-to-ceiling windows. His feet lead him into the room without pause, spinning slowly in a circle to take in the gilt framed portraits adorning every wall and the deep red of the curtains and furnishings. It takes a second turn in the dim light before he starts to notice the dust everywhere, the mouse-chewed chair covers, the stained rugs, the rotten floorboards, and the all-pervading stench of decay in the air.

There's a creak behind him and he finds Athos looking at him oddly. "Are you alright?" he asks bluntly.

d'Artagnan can't read his expression so answers honestly. "Yes. I've never been in a house this grand – apart from the Palace, of course!" Athos squints at him and d'Artagnan wonders if Athos has a hangover, even though the curtains are blocking most of the light in this room. He's been even quieter than normal, this morning. He decides to be helpful. "Where do you want me to start? Shall we take the pictures down – I could move a table over to stand on, and hand them down?"

There's an odd noise from the doorway and d'Artagnan turns to find Aramis and Porthos peering in. Aramis is opening his mouth to speak when Porthos nudges him and butts in. "Good idea, young 'un. I'll make a start out here."

"I'll help you," Aramis says quickly, and they both disappear.

d'Artagnan stares after them, then turns to Athos. "Am I missing something?" But Athos has crossed to a bookcase and opened the glass front. His hand hovers in front of the spines, and d'Artagnan is sure he sees the strong fingers trembling. Definitely a hangover, then.

He removes a pair of candlesticks from the nearest table and hauls it over to the wall, then starts lifting the paintings from their nails and stacks them in the hall. Athos has got his tremors under control and is steadily emptying the bookcase, although every time d'Artagnan looks at him he seems to be holding the tomes at arms' length. Perhaps he has a dust allergy. d'Artagnan redoubles his efforts and has soon cleared the walls, so he starts to gather trinkets and ornaments from the tables and sills.

The cart arrives and the carter manoeuvres through the iron gates of the courtyard and as close to the front steps as possible. Aramis and Porthos send the carter across to the inn, telling him to return in an hour, and claim the role of loading the cart. They are leaving the larger furniture for now, and the ground floor is soon emptied of its portable assets. In spite of the grand scale of the rooms, the contents are mostly shabby and d'Artagnan has a sense of disappointment. It seems the owners had fallen on hard times, or perhaps had simply lost interest in living. He's tried asking Athos about the family who lived here but Athos first ignored his questions, and finally told him abruptly to get on with his work. Feeling slightly hurt, d'Artagnan does just that, beginning to resent this musty house and its decaying contents.

d'Artagnan carries out the one item he finds to admire, a beautiful wooden box, intricately carved and inlaid with a marquetry depiction of a river scene in wood and mother-of-pearl, and places it carefully into Porthos' waiting hands. He stops to push a hand through his sweaty hair, oblivious to the smudges of dust he leaves on his chin and forehead. Athos appears behind him clutching a pair of vases which he hands to Aramis before sinking to the top step, breathing deeply through his nose. d'Artagnan looks at him, then at the others, feeling concerned, but they work steadily on, apparently oblivious to the pallor of Athos' complexion and the stricken look in his eyes.

d'Artagnan hands him his water bottle and Athos takes it wordlessly, drinking deeply. "Athos?" d'Artagnan wants to ask if he is feeling ill, but a flash of blue eyes silences him.

"Make a start on the upstairs. Leave any bedding and furnishings, just take the valuables. And hurry up, we haven't got all day!"

d'Artagnan feels another surge of irritation. He's worked as hard as any of them this morning, probably harder – and he hasn't even had time for a drink himself yet. But he stifles the feeling, and turns without a word to slip back into the dim interior of the house he is beginning to hate.

The upper landing is incredibly dark. He flings open the first door he comes to and finds the curtains are drawn, only a tiny sliver of light showing him a path across the room. He takes a handful of curtain ready to yank it open so he can see what he's doing and leaps back, stifling a yelp of surprise as the material rips in his hand. More cautiously he reaches higher with both hands, but when he puts pressure on it the whole curtain detaches from the top and he disappears under a heap of dusty fibres as it tumbles.

Grit fills his eyes and tiny somethings slither down the gap between his shirt and his neck. He feels smothered, weighed down by the heavy fabric, and he flails his arms, trips over a fold and nose-dives to the ground, hitting his face on something solid on the way down. He curses, tasting blood, and tries to stand, but he must be lying on the material because he's pinned to the ground, and the more he struggles to rise the more heavilycv the curtain seems to weigh on his shoulders. He's panicking now as he tries to breathe without inhaling dust and cobwebs. It feels like someone's lying across his back and he wonders if they are playing a trick on him.

"Get off me, dammit!" he yells finally, anger surging through him at the thought of one of them making a fool of him while the others look on. Aramis, it must be, he thinks, as the weight suddenly lifts. Porthos would be even heavier, and Athos would not stoop so low. He flails his legs, hoping to catch Aramis and pay him back, but his feet are kicking in thin air. He recognises the escape route this observation offers, and wriggles backwards, cursing quietly to himself, until suddenly he's free of the rolls of material and can stand up.

The room is empty. Of course it is, he thinks, sourly. They are probably hiding on the landing waiting for him to explode, before acting innocent. He decides dignity is his only recourse, and brushes himself down, turning to the light from the window to check he's not crawling with spiders – and sees all three men sitting peacefully on the side of the cart in the courtyard outside the front door.

His first thought is anger, as he realises they didn't bother to check if he was alright. They must have heard him hit whatever it was – he looks and sees a dressing-table on its side – with his face as he fell. He feels his cheek, wincing as he touches a bruise already rising there.

Then he wonders how they got outside so fast. Surely he would have heard them going down the stairs or clattering across the tiled hallway? Perhaps he'd imagined the weight across his back – but he'd barely been able to breathe! He stoops, and picks up the tattered remains of the curtain. It weighs little in his hands and he frowns, mystified.

He's aware of a prickling sensation as the hairs on the back of his neck slowly rise, and he quashes the feeling ruthlessly. He's hot, sweaty, thirsty, itchy with whatever has fallen inside his shirt and his face hurts, but he's not going to admit any of this. Whatever joke they've played on him – he refuses to countenance any other explanation, for there is none – he will rise above it.

So he carries on, gathering the small items that have fallen to the floor from the dressing table and wondering who once lived here. He doesn't even know if the last member of the family was male or female. This is a man's room, he decides, looking around at the furnishings. He feels a flicker of empathy for whoever once slept in this bed, three times the size of his own. Did he stand at this window and look out at the same rooftops and the flash of silver from the Seine, only two streets away, as he dressed in the morning? Or did he have someone to dress him, like the King?

d'Artagnan doesn't know enough about rich families to imagine this house in its heyday. But he's already more familiar with death and loss than he'd like to be, and he feels a pang as he looks at the paltry belongings he's gathered. Is this all that is left after a long life, he wonders?

He leaves his findings outside the door and progresses along the landing, thinking about his own family home. It's a whole winter since he left with his father, full of hope and excitement about their mission to Paris. He wonders if his uncle has hired a steward yet, as he'd requested in his last letter. If not, the hole in the roof over his room will have worsened over the winter and he feels a sinking sensation as he wonders if their belongings – what little they had – have been spoiled. The quilt his mother sewed him; the wooden sword he played with for years before his father finally gave him a proper sword at the age of thirteen; his grandfather's bible... were they still safe?

The second room is completely empty, so he turns across the landing to the third door. As he puts a hand on the knob he feels a weird sensation, like a tingling. It's almost painful and he snatches his hand away automatically. He touches it again more cautiously but this time feels nothing, so he turns the knob, shaking his head. The silence of the house must be getting to him. He remembers the three Inséparables, waiting outside while he slaves away on his own up here. When did they decide _he_ was to do all the work, he wonders grumpily?

Then he takes in his surroundings and stops, feeling an odd reluctance to step further into the room. This one has not been deserted. It is clean and gently perfumed, and the trickle of light from the half-closed curtain shows him a room of treasures. A sumptuous bed covered in white lace furnishings, surrounded by soft white drapes shifting in an unseen breeze. Ornately carved wooden frames surround portraits of children on every wall. An enormous mirror over the fireplace reflects the light from the windows and paints candlesticks, silver trinket boxes and hairbrushes with a soft glow.

d'Artagnan feels like an intruder. This room obviously belonged to the last member of the family, and she presumably died here. He looks at the bed, glad that Athos has told him to leave the bedclothes. He doesn't want to disturb this room and the memories it holds. He can't help wondering if she died alone or whether she had someone to hold her hand. A flash of memory of his mother, lying in a very different bed, her face twisted in pain, his hand reaching out to hers and his father yelling at him not to bother her and to go and do his chores, hits him in the gut and he gasps audibly, then clamps his lips shut, ashamed of his moment of weakness. The ten-year-old memory of his last sight of his mother, denied the comfort of her touch that his questing fingers sought, still hurts, even though his adult self understands his father's concern to protect them both from the reality of her mortal illness.

He shakes himself. What is wrong with him today? He tries to live in the moment – has done for years – and never, _ever_ lets himself remember the pain of losing his mother and the bleakness of the ensuing months when his father shut himself away with his grief and he was left to manage his own pain alone.

He feels the warmth of the sun stroking the back of his neck, and it brings him back to the moment. He takes a deep breath and looks around, deciding to leave this room till last. He also decides it's time he had some help, so he walks back across the landing to the second room which was completely empty, intending to open the window and yell down at the others to come and help. It's when he's reaching for the window latch that he notices the sun is shining straight in his eyes, and for a moment he doesn't know why that is important, until he remembers the feeling of warmth on his neck just now – in the room opposite.

He spins on his heel and strides back to the beautiful bedroom at the back of the house. He's right to be puzzled: even with the curtains drawn back the light is dim in here and the sun will not creep through these windows until early evening. He peers through the glass, wondering if something outside could have reflected light onto him, but finds no explanation. He glances at the mirror – and sees the reflection of a young woman lying on the bed, dressed in a beautiful pale blue gown, her bright red hair spilling across the pillows. He swings round so fast he cricks his neck, already stammering an apology for intruding before realising that the bed is still empty, its covers smooth and pristine.

With a feeling of dread he looks slowly back at the mirror – and sees only his own reflection, looking untidy and sweaty.

He swears, then claps a hand to his mouth and looks around, as if expecting the lady to reappear and chastise him. He wants to apologise but manages not to, knowing how ridiculous it would be to apologise to an empty room. As he exits again, he is sure he hears a faint giggle from behind him and stops dead, but cannot bring himself to look around.

Heart pounding, he stops on the landing and considers. He still has several rooms to check apart from this bedroom. Much as he would welcome the others' banter now, and still feels annoyed that they are lounging in the sun outside while he works, his pride and stubbornness reassert themselves. Athos gave him this job and he will not give in to whatever tricks his mind is playing on him.

He checks the next couple of rooms, finding them thankfully also completely empty. Reaching the last room, he feels another prickle of unease as he turns the handle and pushes the door open.

This room is not empty.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hey, thanks so much for reading and reviewing, and I hope you enjoy the second part._

 **Chapter 2**

"This is all wrong," proclaims Porthos.

Aramis looks at him, wine bottle poised at his lips. "What is, my friend?" he enquires. He sounds cheerful but Porthos knows it is calculated; Aramis feels the gloom of the house as deeply as any of them. Except, apparently, young d'Artagnan who is clearly – and thankfully – oblivious. Which reminds him:

"This!" Porthos waves a hand expansively, encompassing the pile of belongings waiting to be loaded onto the cart, the wine bottles clutched in the hands of both his brothers, and the distinct lack of d'Artagnan at their side.

Aramis frowns, then takes a defiant swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and passing the bottle to Porthos who takes it with a frown of his own, then plonks it down decisively. "I'm going to give 'im an 'and." He slides off the cart, landing nimbly on his feet, and turns to look expectantly at the others.

Athos ignores both of them and continues staring into the neck of the bottle he's holding. Aramis looks at him, then at Porthos. "Can't leave him like this," he shrugs. Athos has been behaving oddly since they returned from Le Havre with Bonnaire; drinking more than he has done for years, and prone to bouts of prolonged introspection. Today, for reasons of his own, is a day he is clearly finding hard to negotiate.

Porthos just looks at him. Aramis sighs, knowing full well what Porthos is not saying. Their current location outside the house has nothing to do with Athos and everything to do with the reputation of the Angevin family who'd owned it. Rumours of dark arts and witchcraft had circulated in court for years and although little had been heard of the Angevin dynasty in recent years, local people still stepped warily around the house. None of them believe the rumours, of course, being far too sensible... but they all feel the same sense of unease upon entering, and Athos, in particular, has found the atmosphere almost overwhelming.

It is with a sense of relief that they notice the Gascon, in his ignorance of the house's reputation, is clearly unaffected by the ambience and they retreat, one-by-one, to the more savoury work of loading the cart in the fresh air. It is not until Athos disappears to buy wine that Porthos begins to feel guilty about leaving the lad to do all the inside work. Aramis is genuinely concerned about Athos, but also supremely reluctant – for reasons he cannot name – to re-enter the house, so resents the reproachful look Porthos sends his way.

Before he can muster an argument, however, there is a blood-curdling scream from inside the house, and all hell breaks loose.

* * *

d'Artagnan threads a cautious path to the window. The darkness in this last room is intense and he can see nothing at all, even with the door open. He toes his way warily across the bare floorboards, but even so cracks his shin on something solid, making him yelp and hop backwards, rubbing his leg and muttering to himself. He finally makes his way to the window and pulls back the curtain – leaping backwards gracefully as the material rends and ripples to the floor; he has learned from his mistake.

The trickle of light that struggles past the murky glass of the window is barely enough to touch the shadows in this room, but he sees enough to know he will need help. It is crammed full of furniture, writing desks, chests and even some stuffed animals, for goodness' sake: an owl on a bookcase, and what looks like a moth-eaten cat on one of the writing desks. There are books piled everywhere, and glass jars, and there is also a pile of black feathers in a corner of the room. He feels his skin crawl and tells himself to get a grip.

He turns to open the window and call the others up, but when he sees the trio comfortably supping wine he feels a surge of anger. Enough is enough. A smile creeps over his face as he hatches a plan. He takes a couple of steps backwards so as not to be seen, and opens his mouth. A full-blooded Gascon scream should do it, he thinks, smirking to himself as he imagines their reaction. He takes one more step backwards – and collides with something solid, and warm.

Whirling, hand already reaching for his sword, he finds there is nothing behind him but dust motes floating on a tiny shaft of pale sunlight.

He can hear the blood pounding in his ears as he searches the room with his eyes. There is nothing living in here, and definitely nothing warm. Yet he cannot deny what he just felt against his back – can still feel an echo of it, in fact.

The hairs are up on his neck again and he feels a stirring of air, as if someone is standing directly behind him, their breath cooling his neck. He knows there can be nothing there except the window from which he has just turned, but even so it takes more strength of will than he would have thought possible to turn and check.

There is nothing there.

He heaves in a shaky breath, then begins coughing. The dust is snagging in his throat. He's had enough of this place, and turns to the window again, trying to pull in enough breath to carry out his plan to frighten the others with a scream.

The sun has gone in, he thinks, as he realises the light has gone from the windows. In fact there's a shadow between him and the outside world, which he can't understand, but it's there: a thick mass of dark, swirling dust, growing bigger with every second. He blinks, feeling his vision blurring, and realising he has still not drawn a breath. Cannot breath, in fact; the shadows are surrounding him, stifling him with a sense of chilling evil that seeps into his bones, sinking into him through his mouth and nose and eyes, muffling the world around him until he feels it again: the solid pressure on his back and shoulders, crushing the air from his lungs, sinking him to his knees. He has time to think that this is a ridiculous way to die, then everything goes black.

* * *

Porthos is moving even before the scream stops, and the others are close behind him, all reservations about this house with its reputation of curses and spells forgotten. The scream doesn't sound like d'Artagnan, but the house is empty apart from him: who else can it be?

As they burst through the front door they hear an astonishing racket from upstairs: thumps and crashes, splintering wood, and a deep noise that is felt through the bones, like the wind that precedes an earth tremor. Dust trickles down from above, followed by something more substantial: pieces of plaster dislodged from the ceiling and smashing onto the tiled floor.

Porthos hears someone curse and then Athos is pushing past him, leaping three at a time up the stairs.

They race along the landing together. There's no doubt where the racket is coming from, and if any of them take an extra deep breath before pushing the door open, none of them have the time or inclination to comment.

Athos is first through the door but stops dead, the others cannoning into him. In any other circumstance it would be funny but right now, it's the only thing that stops them from being caught up in what looks like a whirlwind. Chunks of wood and masonry are flying through the air, and the noise is incredible. They can only see a few inches; the rest of the room is obscured with a whirling dust that looks solid. Athos takes one step forward and _disappears_ into the blackness. Without thinking, Porthos shoots his arm out and grabs blindly at the air, feeling grit flaying his hand until he touches leather, grabs it and yanks. Athos erupts back out of the darkness, coughing and flailing his arms as Porthos drags him out to the landing.

Aramis slams the door and the racket is muted a little, but they can still hear it on the other side and the strength of the – whatever it is – rattles the door even as Aramis holds the handle.

"Are you okay?" Porthos whispers to Athos, who is standing with his hands on his knees, struggling for breath. He straightens slowly and Porthos gasps when he sees his face, which is covered in a hundred tiny scratches, as if someone has taken sand to his skin and rubbed it viciously until he bled.

"What _is_ that?" Aramis hisses, hanging on to the door handle which is shuddering as if someone's trying to open it from the inside.

Athos doesn't answer him but tells Porthos tersely to "find d'Artagnan!" Porthos blinks, realising it's possible the lad is not in there with that devilish whirling _thing_ , and lurches into action, racing down the landing calling d'Artagnan's name and flinging all the other doors open.

Athos and Aramis wait as the seconds tick by, each searching the other's face desperately hoping for enlightenment. Neither have a clue what is happening but it becomes increasingly obvious that d'Artagnan is nowhere else in the house and therefore has to be inside this room.

Porthos rejoins them and they communicate wordlessly. On a silent "three!" Aramis flings the door open, the roaring noise assaults their ears again, Porthos grabs Athos' belt and they hurtle through the doorway together.

As they pass him, Aramis grasps his cross and steps after them, not knowing what he's doing or why, but following a deep instinct. He starts to pray, calling on God to help them, to bring light into the darkness and find good in the evil that festers in men's hearts...

And everything stops.

Athos has already disappeared back into the roaring darkness, leaning on the air which feels like a solid barrier. When the noise stops, the shadow vanishes instantly and Athos clatters to the floor, dragging Porthos with him and leaving Aramis gaping into the room from the doorway, still holding his cross in one white-knuckled hand.

The room is devastated. They don't know how it was before, but it is clearly not meant to look like this. Amidst a rain of dust and grit, tatters of material – curtains, thinks Porthos absently – drift slowly down to the floor and he follows them with his eyes, where he has rolled to his back to release Athos from under him. From this position he can see chunks of masonry mingling with shards of wood littering the whole floor: there is no furniture left intact.

Beside him Athos gasps and he rolls instantly towards him, seeing Athos scrambling urgently to his feet. Porthos does the same and immediately sees what Athos has seen: a huddled shape in the centre of the devastation. d'Artagnan is surrounded by broken wood and masonry, and the familiar tan doublet is tattered and torn. Porthos feels a lurch of fear and shoots to his feet, but Aramis has already hurdled them both and is crouching beside the limp figure, fumbling for a pulse.

By the time Athos and Porthos reach them, Aramis is running hands over d'Artagnan's torso, flinching as several splinters catch his palms.

"Aramis?" Athos' tone is urgent, almost frantic.

"He's unconscious but I can't feel any major wounds..." Aramis is still checking, but a creak from above has them all looking up and ducking as another chunk of ceiling crashes down.

"Let's get him out of here!" Aramis starts to drag him by the shoulders towards the door; Athos grabs his feet and hefts him up, then Porthos scoops him up, turning and running through the doorway as more ceiling collapses behind them. Coughing, Athos and Aramis bundle out after him and follow him down the stairs as the whole house seems to shudder and rock on its foundations.

* * *

"What on earth happened?" Tréville's voice is incredulous as he strides across the courtyard. Athos slides off his horse and turns immediately to Aramis, who holds d'Artagnan's body close to his chest across the saddle; the Gascon's head lolls on his shoulder, only half aware. Athos reaches up to gather d'Artagnan in his arms and Tréville hastens to help, yelling at someone to bring blankets and hot water to Aramis' room. He knows the medic will choose his own room over the infirmary.

They lower the youngster carefully to Aramis' bed. He grunts with pain as his back touches the mattress, and Aramis quickly rolls him onto his front before gently divesting him of his doublet. Underneath his shirt is blood-stained and ripped in too many places to number, so Aramis simply pulls his main gauche and slices the collar so he can strip the tattered material away. He catches his breath, and the others are silent, looking at the ruined skin underneath and the swollen patches where bruising will soon appear.

Someone appears with water and lingers in the doorway, gaping, until Tréville sends him away with a glare, then turns his ire on Athos who has slumped onto a chair, staring at the young Gascon as Aramis begins to clean the blood from his back. "What happened?" he demands again.

"A ceiling collapsed on him."

His response is terse and not altogether enlightening. Tréville considers this, notices the sharp look Aramis sends Athos and feels his temper escaping him. "This was a simple task, Athos, one from which you two return unscathed while d'Artagnan looks as if he's been in a bloody stampede, and where the hell is Porthos? I know you measure words like gold dust but I would appreciate more than _five words_ of explanation!"

Athos sighs, and looks at Tréville, who softens a little at the bleakness he sees in his lieutenant's eyes. "Porthos is fine. I sent him to the Palace with the goods we'd gathered, to make sure everything got there safely. We were outside taking a break from loading the cart, and d'Artagnan was finishing the upstairs when we heard a..."

He hesitates, and Aramis gives him another look. He's finished cleaning d'Artagnan's back and it actually looks worse now they can see the number of cuts and scratches littering the tanned skin. There must be splinters as Aramis is now bending over checking each wound with silent intensity, tweezers poised.

Tréville clears his throat impatiently and Athos drags his focus back. "A shout," he says firmly. He refuses to call it a scream. "We heard a shout, and then a... an ..." He trails off, struggling to describe the noise.

"Sounded like the roar of an explosion." Aramis is blunt, with no time for niceties as he carefully extracts a two-inch long splinter of wood from a gash on d'Artagnan's shoulder.

Athos blanches, remembering the feeling of terror invoked by that noise. The morning had been difficult for him; the deserted house had reminded him too much of the return to his ancestral home in Pinon, a few weeks earlier, where he'd been confronted by his 'dead' wife. It had shaken him to the core, and for all his cynicism, the echoes of sadness in the house they were clearing, combined with the stories about the old woman's witchcraft that had kept Paris entertained for her declining years, had left him feeling deeply unsettled. He'd escaped outside as soon as he could, but his melancholic mood had shattered as soon as he'd heard the unearthly racket and known d'Artagnan was in trouble.

He refuses to allow his thoughts to run away with him, and sets his jaw, determined to bring some order to the morning's events. "The house was mostly sound but the last room looked rotten. We don't know what happened, but perhaps d'Artagnan moved something, or tripped..." He struggles to imagine what could have provoked such a cataclysmic destruction, but carries on, firmly ignoring Aramis' arched brow. "Most of the ceiling had come down on him, and part of a wall, destroying the furniture and weakening the floorboards. It was quite... dramatic."

Tréville looks at him carefully, sensing undercurrents, but at that moment d'Artagnan groans loudly and turns his head, then erupts upwards from the bed. His flailing arms knock over the pan of water and send Aramis – who had been kneeling on the bed to reach a wound on his far side – tumbling to the ground. He's shouting hoarsely, but they can't make out the words. Tréville helps Aramis to his feet as Athos tries to calm d'Artagnan with touch and word, and slowly the youngster subsides, sinking back to the bed and putting a hand to his head.

Tréville checks Aramis is alright, then retreats, watching as the two men reassure d'Artagnan and try to persuade him to lie back down but he is adamant, and Tréville suddenly works out what d'Artagnan had shouted. It was in Gascon, and he'd been begging someone – Aramis, presumably – to get off him, to let him breathe. He mentions this to Aramis, who sighs, knowing he still has to dress the wounds on d'Artagnan's back, but acquiesces and asks Athos to fetch more pillows so d'Artagnan can sit upright. Eventually order is restored and Tréville leaves Aramis to finish his ministrations, motioning to Athos to follow him.

Outside he watches as Athos gulps in the fresh air greedily. Both men turn as Porthos clatters into the courtyard, leaping off and striding over, looking anxious. Athos hastens to reassure him and he disappears inside to see for himself that the lad is conscious and not dying.

Tréville asks quietly: "Is there anything else? Those rumours about the house, and the family..."

"Are just that: rumours." Athos is firm, and Tréville knows he is unlikely to hear anything more on the subject. He nods, and asks Athos to organise a second team to arrange the removal of any other items from the house, suggesting they take a builder with them to ensure the house is safe to re-enter. Athos looks far from enthusiastic, but nods, sighs, and heads off, gathering 'volunteers' as he goes.

* * *

Porthos finds Aramis trying to persuade d'Artagnan to take a pain draught. The youngster is agitated and keeps pushing the cup away. As Porthos enters both men look up and d'Artagnan exclaims in relief. "Thank God! I was afraid he had got you!"

Porthos and Aramis exchange blank looks. "Who?"

"That man! The one that tried to smother me!"

There's a small silence before Aramis ventures to speak. "d'Artagnan, there was no one there. The ceiling collapsed on you." He feels uncertain as he voices the explanation Athos gave: it doesn't seem enough to explain the swirling black dust in the room, and remembers his complete inability to step into it without his crucifix in his hand. Porthos is silent and Aramis can see his expression is equally troubled, but neither of them have another explanation for what happened.

d'Artagnan is not to be diverted. "There was a man. He was – he tried before, in the other room. I thought it was you but when I got free of the curtain you were all outside." This doesn't make a lot of sense to his listeners but he is oblivious, words tumbling over themselves in his agitation. "Then I saw her, and she was lovely - beautiful red hair - but that last room was _evil_ , and he was waiting there, and I couldn't breathe, Porthos, he was on me and I was just _drowning_ in the dust!" His deep brown eyes are intense, looking from one to the other, drawing them in. "Then she came and she was fighting for me, telling him to leave me alone... and then you were there, and it all ... stopped." He stops too, panting a little, then sinks back into the pillows. He puts a hand to his head again and groans, then pushes Aramis away as he fusses.

"What woman?" Porthos asks, dubiously. He's not sure whether to encourage d'Artagnan in his version of events, but he can't resist his curiosity. The lad seems so sure even though his words sound outrageous.

"Janette, I think her name is. He was screaming at her... but there was so much noise I can't be sure."

Aramis frowns. The widow's name was Antoinette. The rumours about her were well-known in Paris: perhaps d'Artagnan had overheard someone gossiping in a bar, and misheard the name. He might not have realised where they were headed, that morning, but the creepy atmosphere in the house – and being alone upstairs – must have brought the gossip to mind and spooked him. It is all explainable.

They settle d'Artagnan and Porthos chats amiably as Aramis finishes patching him up. d'Artagnan is intractable in his refusal to lie face down, and Aramis gives in, remembering how they'd found him with half the ceiling on his back. The lad's reluctance is understandable. So Aramis arranges him so he leans on Porthos' chest, head cradled on the warm shoulder, and he almost falls asleep as Aramis stitches, then dresses, the deepest wounds.

They stay with him while he dozes, and Athos finds them here when he returns, bearing sustenance from the mess room courtesy of Serge. They eat, and drink, and save some for d'Artagnan when he wakes, while Athos tells them he'd taken ten men, the second time, and they'd worked in teams of three and four to empty the rest of the house. He shivers as he remembers looking in on the destruction in the end room before closing the door firmly. None of them talk about the way the house made them feel, and he thinks they never will. He can't articulate it, for one thing, and he is a Musketeer, for goodness' sake. Their world is clear-cut: they cannot believe in witchcraft or black magic.

Athos tells them about the neighbour who had come to talk with him about the family while the second cart was loaded. He'd seemed fond of the old woman who had locked herself away after her husband's death, and commented on how beautiful she had been when she first came to Paris from Ireland.

"Ireland?" Aramis sounds startled and Porthos looks at him, before realising. d'Artagnan's lady had been red-haired, as many Irish women are. They fill Athos in on the lad's version of events, and he looks ashen-faced when Porthos mentions the name d'Artagnan had heard.

"Athos? What is it?"

"The neighbour knew them for years. He said the husband was controlling and cruel, and hated her name so he changed it to Antoinette when they married..." Athos hesitates, looking reluctant.

"Athos..." Porthos sounds rattled so Athos hurries to finish.

"Her birth name was Janette."

The silence is intense as they all look at each other. Eventually Aramis clears his throat. "Surely people must have known... d'Artagnan might have heard the name..."

"The old neighbour said she only told him when she was dying. Wanted to be buried with her real name. Said it hadn't been spoken in years... she cried when he called her by her proper name."

After another silence, Porthos spoke hesitantly. "Even so... d'Artagnan could have..."

"Visited her grave? Before we even knew we were tasked with clearing that house?" Aramis sounds angry. They all turn to look at d'Artagnan, sleeping soundly in spite of his injuries, a bruise showing clearly on his cheek.

"Maybe it's true what they say."

"What?" Both Porthos and Aramis sound desperate to make sense of their morning.

"That 'there are more things in heaven than are dreamed of in our philosophy'."

There's another long silence, then Porthos begins to laugh. Aramis stares at him, and Athos glares. "Who the heck says that, Athos? Not summat I've ever heard, that's for sure!"

Athos begins to explain about Shakespeare, in more detail than Porthos needs, but suddenly Aramis doesn't care. Witch, or lonely Irish woman; haunted house or dilapidated ruin; evil or accident: what matters is that d'Artagnan is safe, and his brothers are ... slightly mad. He watches them arguing, a smile twitching his lips.

Behind them, unnoticed, d'Artagnan stirs and turns his head to the window, where a pale beam of sunlight creeps through the pane and lingers for a moment on his cheek, warming his skin.

* * *

 _Hehe, I had fun with this - hope you did too! Thanks for reading, 'see' you soon._


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